


MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT

by emmyeccentric



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Introspection, Other, bedelia's got issues we know this, this is very dark but whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 15:42:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10993971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmyeccentric/pseuds/emmyeccentric
Summary: "And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus: and when I saw her, I wondered with great admiration." - Rev. 17:6or, the one about bedelia in which my biblical upbringing is put to use





	MYSTERY, BABYLON THE GREAT

**Author's Note:**

> I'M BACK! And I have a college degree woohoo! I've cleaned out my inbox of all the prompts I just couldn't get to, but now I have a year of more free time than I know what to do with, so send 'em in. This is a little ditty, but I've had this idea since finals and I finally wrote it down.

_**conquest** _

From the first night in Baltimore to Paris to Florence, they always end up this way. She balances astride him and his palm supports her, and she takes him in again, and again, and again. She gets nearly drunk off the way her thighs grip him like a vice. She always insists on seeing his face from beneath, using him as her vulgar, desperate throne. She thinks of men lost at sea; of Circe and the moans that parallel the deceiving comfort of the sirens’ song. He’s only vulnerable in those seconds when his eyes close and he loses himself in her in the most primitive and deepest way a man or beast can. He has taken it all from her: her home, her career, her safety, but she will have this until the very end. She shatters; the satisfaction and satiation she feels is just as pristine and multi-faceted as the diamond façade he forced onto her finger.

_**war** _

There are times, as she sits at the head of some grandiose spread, that the weight of the cutlery in her hand becomes too apparent. Her mind works through the Physics lectures of her youth (she liked Physics, learning the foundations of existence and motion and time…it’s the closest she’s ever come to God) and wonders the amount of force necessary needed to drive the delicate silver through his eye. She envisions the maroon of his iris blooming into the whites of his eyes. As she slathers gardenia-and-jasmine cream over her hands before bed one evening, the delicate scent mixes briefly with the imagined _pop_  of his hyoid underneath her thumbs. Her frame folds into his as they lie in their shared bed, his arms dense as quicksand and ahold of her just as tightly. She prays to somehow grow bigger, overwhelming, to fall down the rabbit hole and take a nibble of the tea cake. She could wrap him in her arms and squeeze him like a child’s ragdoll until a purple tongue flops from his lips and he collapses between her fingers, spent. She shakes the dream away, and wraps her hand around his as he sleeps peacefully. They are soft, but there is a hint of callous from working a manual saw. Despite his usual fastidiousness, dried blood smudges one of his cuticles. He stirs, grips her hand tighter and nuzzles her hair, sighing. She thinks she can hear her metacarpals snap like worn violin strings, and her mind quickly goes quiet.

_**famine** _

At thirteen, she was a promising ballerina in her company, and her body wasn’t an enemy, but it certainly posed a threat. As her breasts filled in and her hips flared, meals were ignored in order to maintain the childlike form that served a dancer well. Thirty years later, her relationship with food has taken on a new contention. Hannibal agrees to her terms, she won’t eat his normal wares or else she goes. Still, he puts her on a diet apt for slaughter, and then she refuses that, relying on his wine to fill her stomach and quell her hunger pangs. He reminds her that as a physician she should know better, that she’s sickly, but he’d want them plumped up anyway, wouldn’t he? Her cheeks hollow, and a pale yellow queasiness paints her skin. She looks positively Victorian, like she has nothing left to offer him of her body, and she _loves_ it.

**_death_ **

When she reads in the papers that they are missing, she prefers them dead. She pours a glass of Shiraz and lights a marijuana cigar, the kind she rarely smoked when she was young, and relaxes on her balcony, relishing in her silk robe and contentment. She thinks affectionately of their swollen bodies putrefying in deep woods of the Chesapeake. A smattering of maggots squirms on Hannibal’s immaculate cheekbones and she smiles. How inconvenient, then, when the Grim Reaper carries his new bride across her threshold, into her closet, where she is hiding amongst her Chanel wool and time is moving so slowly. When the soft-gasoline smell of chloroform stifles her breathing, her last thought is what beautiful dish she will become.

**Author's Note:**

> I was drunk when I posted so there are probably typos~


End file.
